Living With a Dead Man
by Sarah Songbird
Summary: Molly Hooper's house had been invaded. She stared at the man laying on her couch. "Sherlock..." She felt bad for him, of course, but he needed to move. Post-Reichenbach.


**~~Molly Hooper~~**

t was sad for her, really, to see him this way. I broke her heart a little bit every time she looked over at him and he was just sitting there with that blank look on his face. She knew he wasn't blank, though. There was always something going on in that funny little head of his. Of course, she knew exactly what it was that was going through his head this time. John. None of it was about her. She didn't matter. That's what had drawn the raven-haired man to her flat. No one ever paid attention to poor old little Molly Hooper. It – she – wasn't important.

Occasionally, though, he would just go like this. He would go days – weeks – without saying a word. It got slightly unnerving after a little while, but she dealt with it. Everyone had their own methods of coping with death, so to speak. This was his. He was worried about John. He was worried that, one day, someone would come try to avenge Moriarty's supposed death on John since he himself was "gone."

When Sherlock wasn't completely silent, he was either stalking John or rambling endlessly on how James Moriarty wasn't actually dead. His theory was that if he could make it out of that alive, so could Jim. Jim had been a nice man at one point...I remember sitting just where Sherlock is right now with Jim and watching Glee with him. Those were good days, before everything turned all funny. Before I knew he was a murderer. Before I knew he was going to try and kill Sherlock Holmes – the man I love with all of my heart. That really changed things, I suppose...

One morning, I woke to the smell of something _awful _coming from the kitchen. It _smelled _like someone was trying to perform a science experiment, but it hadn't turned out very well for them. She stumbled into the room, her hand cupped over her nose. "Sherlock, what are you–" She paused mid-sentence, though. Before her, stood Sherlock Holmes. There was flour on his cheek, and his hands were covered in a mixture of what she could only assume was eggs and milk. He had tried to make an omelet. Upon the stove sat a skillet, and within said skillet rested a sticky, burnt mess. It was a disaster, really. Sherlock was just staring at the mess with his head cocked to the side, as though he was appraising it. For what it's worth, it was a very nice gesture. He was trying to make her breakfast.

It was later revealed that he was making – er, trying to make – Molly breakfast, because he wanted to thank her for letting him stay with her. He knew that he was a burden, and wanted to do something to make up for that. Molly laughed nervously, smiling and assuring him that he was no burden whatsoever. _He had tried to make breakfast for her. _They ended up simply going out for breakfast instead. Sherlock didn't clean up the mess. Then again, he was Sherlock Holmes. He doesn't have a very good reputation for cleaning up after himself. Right now he's in the biggest mess he will probably ever face in his life – his death. I say death. His faked death. I was just kind of disappointed that I would have to be the one who had to clean up the sticky mess that happened to be his way of trying to say thank you to me that was still sitting in the kitchen. By this time, the egg and flour will probably be too stuck to save it. I'll just have to throw the entire pan in the trash.

Living with a dead man was an interesting experience. He had to be careful about when – and how – he left the house. He couldn't be wearing anything that he would have before the fall in fear of being recognized. He was technically still to blame for the deaths of all of those people, and now they had no evidence against him because Jim was "dead", too. She doubted that he was actually dead, though. She expected that he had pulled something much like what Sherlock had. This "war", as they're calling it, may never end up ending. She would never get her happy ending.

For Molly, the happiest ending she could dream of would be Sherlock at least staying her friend. She was in love with this man. She wasn't quite sure _why. _Of all the human beings on the planet, little Molly Hooper had chosen to fall in love with the one person – the _one man _– who could never love her back. She had wild, almost explicit dreams about Sherlock. They were caught in the strangest of situations in the strangest of places. Some of the dreams were filthy enough for her to wake up with a blush on her cheeks. She never turned on the light to check, but she knew they had to be bright red. She could feel the heat rushing in her face.

She could never have him that way, though. He would never have her. Own her. That would always be Jim. She lost everything that kept her body sacred to him, and it was one of the biggest mistakes she had ever made in her entire life. All she could do, though, is hope that Sherlock didn't notice. Hope that, somehow, Sherlock had overlooked it and still cared about her as a friend. The fact that he was her friend was enough for her. She could never ask for more.


End file.
